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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029715">Real, Here, Present</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdraw/pseuds/withdraw'>withdraw</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek &amp; Paul/Levenson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental overdose, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Depersonalization, Depression, Derealization, Dissociation, Doctor Sherman is competent and helpful, Gen, Mindfulness Techniques, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Therapy, discussions of past suicide attempts, post So Big/So Small</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:09:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,822</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029715</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdraw/pseuds/withdraw</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Evan does not go back to school.  He does go back to therapy.</p>
<p>Spans the missing time between So Big/So Small and the finale.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Real, Here, Present</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This ended up being a little more personal than I expected, so it isn't edited as thoroughly as I normally would.  </p>
<p>I'm sure there are many stories like this.  Here is another one.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His mother leaves him.  Okay, so she doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.  Intellectually, Evan knows this because she just spent approximately ten, teary minutes explaining to him that the loneliness, the fear, the unwavering knowledge he’d had since childhood that he would always be alone in the end because he was fundamentally broken and unlovable wasn’t actually a thing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, she leaves him.  For five minutes.  To go to the corner store so they could have comfort food for dinner, she says.  She’ll be right back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan sits on his bed and worries at the ragged hem of his shirt.  His phone buzzes to let him know that the Connor Project fundraiser has reached its goal, congratulations!  He throws the phone across the room and tries to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tries to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tries to breathe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His arms and legs feel like they’re made of lead and his head feels like it’s made of helium.  He feels stretched somewhere in the middle like he isn’t actually in his body right now.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A snippet of memory floats by.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Try noticing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Doctor Sherman’s voice says.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ground yourself, Evan</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan notices that his left leg won’t stop jiggling and his hands are sweaty.  He notices that his bedspread is pilled and worn, probably from all the times he picks at it while on the computer.  He notices himself breathing in.  He notices himself breathing out.  He notices his breathing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shit, now he thinks the only thing keeping his breathing going is the fact that he’s paying attention to it.  If he stops, maybe he’ll stop breathing and die.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he is actually dead right now.  Maybe he actually died when he let go of that tree and this is some sort of shitty, twisted afterlife.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been five minutes.  His mother isn’t home yet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That’s fine.  No, really, it is because five minutes isn’t enough time to drive to the corner store and get back, let alone choose what food to buy.  Maybe there’s a long line.  Maybe she decided to walk.  It’s fine.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe she realized how hopeless he was and decided not to come back once she left.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shit.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tries to breathe.  He’s pretty sure that he’s not real.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan notices the little box on the bedside table that holds his medications.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He grabs it, shaking the pills onto his palm and swallowing one dry, coughing a little as it catches on the back of his throat as it goes down.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sits and waits for it to work.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe they’re out of date.  It’s been a while since he’s needed to take any.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He swallows a second pill, then a third, just to be sure.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe his tolerance is higher?  He takes another two, just in case.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan suddenly feels slippery, like he’s sliding slowly away from the world.  He can’t figure out where he is anymore because the colors are all mushy and the room feels upside down.  Something isn’t right.  His heart is wrong.  His lungs are wrong.  His stomach is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> wrong, but he can’t figure out what the problem is, so he sits on his bed, staring perplexedly at his hands.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The front door opens and closes.  His mother is home.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With a bolt of terrifying clarity, Evan realizes his error.  He is very much alive, but he might not be in a minute.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He slips and slides down the stairs, slurring a little through tears and snot.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I took too much, I didn’t mean to,” he cries, then vomits all over his mother’s shoes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan’s mother doesn’t let him go back to school after he is released from the hospital.  She wants his medications to stabilize first.  She calls in sick for two weeks straight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan doesn’t argue.  He gathers all the blankets in the house, piles them on the couch, then crawls beneath them.  Their weight pushes him towards the floor.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ground yourself, Evan.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He dozes or watches TV.  Eats what’s put in front of him.  Takes his medications when prompted.  His mother sits next to his head, smoothing her fingers through his hair while she reads. His phone doesn’t buzz.  No one wants to know how he is, or why he isn’t in school.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That’s fine.  Evan notices his mother’s low humming, the shift of pages as she reads.  He notices the smooth, gray couch cushion under his cheek and the blankets pinning him down, holding him to the earth.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ground yourself, Evan.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first day back at school does not go well.  Evan walks to school slowly and stands on the sidewalk, watching the throng of students buzz and hum and gather before the school day starts.  He’s worried that someone will notice him.  He’s worried that no one will notice him.  He takes a few, hesitant steps forward.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alana catches his eye from where she stands on the school steps, then deliberately looks away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Someone brushes his shoulder as they pass him, sending him stumbling.  When he is upright again, he sees Jared walking away from him, laughing with someone Evan doesn’t know.  He doesn’t acknowledge Evan, like Evan doesn’t even exist.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan does exist, or at least he’s pretty sure that he does.  He is real.  He is here.  He is present.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He is hyperventilating.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first bell rings.  The students begin the daily shuffle into the school to find their classes.  Evan walks towards the front doors, then turns at the last second, escaping to the corner of the building.  He puts one hand on the brick and notices how it scrapes his hand when he slides it along the wall.  He notices the weak, winter sun hitting the back of his neck, and the way the crisp air tastes slightly of metal.  His left arm aches.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Evan?”  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan jumps in surprise.  It’s the school principal, Mr. Howard, standing a few feet away with two cardboard mugs, one in each hand.  He hands one of the mugs to Evan.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hot chocolate,” Mr. Howard says.  “You looked cold.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He is cold, Evan realizes suddenly.  His fingers and toes are tingling and the winter sun isn’t enough to stop his shivering.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you alright?  The bell for second period just rang,” Mr. Howard says.  Evan isn’t sure how he lost the time from first period to second.  He can’t remember what happened after he dragged his hand across the brick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no, I’m-”  The word </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span> sticks in his throat.  He doesn’t want to lie anymore, not even the little, everyday white lies that people tell to make their lives easier.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mr. Howard watches him calmly and sips at his coffee, waiting patiently to see if Evan is going to finish his sentence.  When it’s clear that he’s not, he smiles a little at Evan.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell you what,” he says.  “I know that your English teacher has a planning period now.  Why don’t you go speak to her about the work you missed, then meet me in my office.  I’ll let your science teacher know you’re excused.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan nods jerkily.  He collects a thick tome of sonnets from his English teacher, 6 thick packets of paper at the principal’s office, and just barely makes it on time to Spanish, where he catches every other word.  He’s only attended one class today and he already feels overwhelmed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After lunch, the nurse calls him to her office and watches sharply as he swallows his medication.  It kicks in 10 minutes into AP World History and the rest of the day is a bit of a haze.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When his mother asks him how his first day back went, he tells her the truth.  He tells her about how he can’t remember first period, how he fell asleep in fifth because his medication makes him drowsy, and how he doesn’t want to go back, he can’t go back, please don’t make him go back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mother stares at him for a minute with her mouth slightly open in surprise.  Evan shifts and picks at his fingers, suddenly worried that she’s angry or disappointed.  But then she smiles at him, and pulls him into a fierce hug, dragging his head down to her shoulder so that he has to work to keep them both upright.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you for telling me,” she says into his ear.  She lets him go, squeezing his shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me make some calls and see what I can do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His mother has a long call with Doctor Sherman, a longer call with Principal Howard, and then a three-way conference call with them both the next morning as they come up with a plan.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan does not go back to school.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On Mondays, he checks in at the school to exchange classwork and meet with teachers, but the rest of the week is spent at home, working through the week’s assignments.  It’s both easier and harder at the same time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Evan’s medication makes him drowsy, he can take a nap, and on the nights when he wakes up to his heart racing, he pulls out his Spanish text and conjugates verbs until he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.  He gets really good at finding Youtube videos that explain the trickier parts of Chemistry and Calculus.  It’s weird not to have a teacher lecturing.  Evan is in charge of his own education, which is--well, it’s actually pretty cool.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the days when he just can’t stand himself any longer, he hikes into town and arrives at City Hall sweaty and out of breath.  There’s a park nearby, so he walks the balance beam and swings a little to cool down until a kid asks for a turn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>One day in early April, his usual walk doesn’t work and he’s so sick of himself that on the way back he marches into the Pottery Barn on his way home, asks to speak to a manager, and walks out with a job.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes a little on the sidewalk after, marveling at his audacity and the fact that it worked.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At the store, he is both visible and invisible.  The customers ignore him as they enter and smile at him as they leave.  He becomes comfortable with the patter of small talk: the chirpy greeting, the idle talk of the weather as he rings them up, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>have a nice day, please come again</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After a month with no time for anything except school and working at the store, Evan answers his cell phone on the first ring with “Hello, this is Evan.  How can I help you?”  His mother is so surprised that she drops her phone and has to call him back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In May, Evan looks up from counting the ones and fives in his cash drawer to see Jared standing in front of him, holding a mug.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Jared says when he sees Evan.  “Hey.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan takes a minute to listen to the clink of change as the cash drawer clicks shut and notice the way the fluorescent lights make everything look slightly bleached.  He takes a deep breath, feels his lungs fill with air.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you find everything you were looking for today?” he asks.  Jared blinks at him, taken aback.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he answers after the silence stretches a little too long.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your total is $7.85.”  Jared slides a credit card through the machine and pokes silently at the prompts.  Evan wraps the mug while he waits for the transaction to clear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Have a nice day,” Evan says as he hands the package to Jared.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Jared mumbles, and leaves.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan calls his manager over and asks to take his break early.  He walks little circles behind the store and shakes his hands, trying to flick the anxiety off his fingers.  It doesn’t quite work, so he crouches and puts his palms against the warm pavement, leaning his weight against them, pushing into the ground.  He breathes, calms, walks back to the front of the store, and resumes his post at the cash register.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It feels like progress.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The school asks him if he would stand up at graduation and speak for Connor.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He declines.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he sits on a hard plastic chair, sweltering under layers of polyester, while Alana marches to the podium with a slightly manic smile fixed on her face that somehow allows all of her teeth to gleam unnervingly in the sun and speaks about the unprecedented community that formed around Connor Murphy after his death without mentioning Evan once.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s better this way.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In June, Evan opens his phone, scrolls to Zoe Murphy’s phone number, then closes his phone.  He also passes his driver’s test and buys a beat-up old Honda that barely runs.  It’s not much, but he feels independent and adult in a way he never has before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In July, he drives to the Autumn Smile Apple Orchard and sits in the car in the parking lot for thirty minutes before driving away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In August, he writes two scholarship essays and is awarded enough money to cover a couple of classes at the community college next semester, prerequisites that will transfer anywhere.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The summer passes, then the fall.  Though the events of last year don’t feel long ago, they do at least feel a bit distant, if he doesn’t think about them too much.  Doctor Sherman says it’s the brain’s way of protecting itself.  He also says that forty years in the future Evan will be doing something innocuous, like taking a shower or peeling an orange, and suddenly feel guilty all over again.  Some things you never forget completely, he says, you just have to learn to live with them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan isn’t so sure he’s learning to live with them, so much as learning to juggle them while treading water.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jared and Alana both leave town to go to college.  Evan knows this because he stalks them on Facebook one night.  Or not stalks, exactly, more like investigates.  He wants to know if there is anyone familiar still in town.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Turns out the only people he knows are Jared and Alana.  And Zoe.  He doesn’t actually know all the people who friended him back when he was Connor’s fake best friend.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You should find a hobby,” Doctor Sherman says one day in December after he tells him about his late-night Facebook session.  “It’s a good way to meet new people.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan is annoyed and a little frustrated today.  It’s only 4 pm and it’s already dark outside.  Plus, it’s finals week, so he doesn’t really have time for this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” he says, a little more sharply than he means to. “I had a hobby.  I liked trees.  I learned all about them.  Even took an internship at a park one summer.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Doctor Sherman eyes him warily, suddenly aware that the tone of the session has shifted.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And then I threw myself off one of them,” Evan snaps.  “So no, I don’t think I need a hobby.  In fact, you can take your hobbies and your letters and fuck off!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He stands suddenly, out of breath.  He tries to grab his backpack to sling it over his shoulder, but he keeps dropping it because his hands are shaking.  Doctor Sherman slides out of his seat.  He doesn’t block the door, but he stands in the way of Evan’s path.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Move,” Evan growls at him.  Doctor Sherman reaches out, trying to soothe.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t do that.  For your safety, I can’t let you drive right now.”  Evan stands in front of him, shuddering so hard in anger that the backpack slips off his shoulder and falls to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan kicks it viciously.  Like a flood gate opening, Evan is suddenly crushed by a wave of uncontrollable anger rising up from some deep well in his chest.  He kicks the backpack again, then grabs it and swings it around to smash on the floor.  He falls on it, pummeling it with his hands and feet.  He’s sick of this.  Sick of trying to connect and failing.  Sick of building something he thinks is stable, only to find the cracked foundation underneath.  He wants to tear it all down.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He catches himself on his hands and knees, heaving and gasping for air.  Tears drip down his nose onto the carpet.  He trembles.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Doctor Sherman kneels beside him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Breathe, Evan,” he murmurs.  Evan wheezes.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Breathe,” he coaches.  “Bring yourself back to the present.  Notice what you’re feeling, what you hear, what you see.  Breathe.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan notices too much.  His ears are ringing and the light is too bright.  He can see every strand of fabric in the carpet.  His chest hurts as he gasps.  His nose is running into his mouth.  When he licks his lips, they taste salty.  The thin carpet isn’t enough to stop the concrete underneath from hurting his knees.  He has a hole in his left shoe.  The ticking of the clock on the wall is deafening.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He is real, he is here, he is present, for better or worse.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His chest eases.  Evan slowly crumples onto his side, resting his head on his abused backpack.  Doctor Sherman shines a light in Evan’s eyes, then holds his wrist, counting his pulse.  He pulls a stethoscope out of his desk and listens to Evan’s lungs through the thin layer of his shirt.  When he’s done, he flips the stethoscope around his neck like he uses it every day.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going to be fine, Evan,” he says.  “Keep breathing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His shoes disappear from Evan’s view.  Evan can’t seem to move or respond.  He’s as dazed by his anger’s sudden appearance as he is at its abrupt end.  Doctor Sherman reappears, stepping carefully around him as he drapes a light blanket over Evan’s shoulders.  He sits down cross-legged on the floor beside him, a phone held to his ear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he says into the phone.  “But he’s in no state to drive.  Oh?  Well yes, that would do it.  Why don’t you bring him back tomorrow morning and I’ll talk to him before he picks up the car.”  Doctor Sherman ends the call and watches Evan for a long, quiet minute.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan wipes his face with the cuff of his sleeve, then lies still again.  The act of moving is exhausting.  Gravity seems stronger than normal.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your mother tells me you didn’t take your medication this morning,” Doctor Sherman says at last.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was running late,” Evan whispers.  His voice barely passes his lips.  They wait in silence until they hear the jingle of the office doors announce his mother’s arrival.  Doctor Sherman meets her outside in the hall, keeping the door cracked slightly.  Heidi tries to brush past him, but he stops her with a soft murmur.  They have a low conversation outside that Evan can’t decipher, then Doctor Sherman closes the door and sits beside him again.  He places a bottle of water in Evan’s eye line.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan sits up slowly, a little woozy as the blood leaves his head.  He sips carefully at the water.  While he drinks, Doctor Sherman sits with his eyes closed and his hands lax on his lap.  Evan isn’t sure what to make of it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Um what-” he starts to ask.  His voice creaks and he coughs.  Doctor Sherman opens his eyes, smiling at him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I was feeling worried about how our session went today, so I took a moment to center myself,” he said.  “Did you know that my wall clock is disturbingly loud?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Evan’s huff of laughter takes him by surprise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you notice that your carpet is really thin?” he asks.  He can’t quite look at Doctor Sherman, so Evan focuses on how his fingers curl around his knees.  He’s a little hesitant because it’s strange to think that they both notice the same things during moments of worry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah.  They say that age comes with wisdom.  What they don’t say is it also comes with joint pain.  Help me up, would you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That night when Evan goes to bed, his mother sits beside him, the way she used to when he was small.  She tucks his comforter around his feet and smoothes his hair away from his forehead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She stays there until Evan is nearly asleep, then quietly turns off the light and leaves his door slightly cracked, so it throws a thin splash of light across his room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He falls asleep before she leaves.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re allowed to be angry, Evan,” Doctor Sherman says the next morning.  “And I don’t think you’ve let yourself be angry in a very long time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It turns out, the more Evan pays attention, the more there is for him to notice.  He begins to connect dots between his mental health that he previously thought of as capricious.  He feels better as the days grow longer.  A stressful test or a looming deadline can set him back.  And if he forgets to take his medication, he might as well stay home.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not a cure, because Doctor Sherman informs him matter-of-factly that cures don’t actually exist, but it is, at least, part of a solution.  The anxiety that he thought of as a wild, uncontrollable force in his life is actually deeply interwoven into little everyday moments: whether he went to bed on time, or if he forgot to eat lunch.  Managing it becomes something he needs to do every day, like brushing his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The anxiety doesn’t disappear, but he knows where to look for it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Doctor Sherman advises him to delete his social media pages, which Evan doesn’t do because Doctor Sherman is, like, seventy and doesn’t understand the essential nature of social media for what he fondly refers to as “the younger ones.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In early May, Zoe puts her senior photo on Facebook, a picture of her sitting on the ground with her hair flowing over her shoulders and her jeans rolled up, surrounded by little saplings.  Evan closes his laptop and lies back on his bed, but he can’t stop thinking about those baby trees.  They're going to grow, sink their roots through the earth, and stretch up towards the light.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Anxiety, awkwardness, and past lies be damned.  Evan needs to see her before she leaves for college.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When she answers her phone,  and he asks </span>
  <em>
    <span>hi do you think we could talk</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she says </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure no problem, meet me in the orchard tomorrow at 3</span>
  </em>
  <span> like Evan didn’t just spend an hour with Doctor Sherman scripting this call.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She arrives before him.  He stops just inside the boundary of the orchard, closes his eyes.  He notices the warmth of the sun on his face, the way his shoes sink a little in the damp ground, the smell of dirt and insects and wet grass.  He lets himself feel heavy, rolls his shoulders down, thinks about his feet digging into the earth and his head reaching for the light.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ground yourself, Evan.</span>
  </em>
</p>
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